


a future

by guineapiggie



Category: The Americans (TV 2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, in which the future is a little bleak but let's be real it's still an upgrade, this show is so sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 07:22:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15138083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guineapiggie/pseuds/guineapiggie
Summary: Oleg was right – there’d been betrayal in his eyes, too, and she still wondered if it was the motherland that had let him down, or her, or both – he was right, she would die for this, forStealthand secrets and airplanes, for Stan, for caviar and stereos and the tiny picture of Lenin in the red, red enamel on the pin on her lapel.Unless she ran.(Oleg discovered women were still smiling at him in clubs, which was a comfort. After a while, he began to smile back, and found it felt like a start. The start of forgetting, if nothing else. He’d been waiting to forget.)





	a future

**Author's Note:**

> writing Russian names in not Cyrillic is a goddamn pain, guys

_1982_

She leaned her head against the cool glass and closed her eyes, listening for – for what? For steps on the wooden floor, just a smidge heavier than usual - because he was a good liar; a far, far better liar than she’d first taken him for, in fact – or, perhaps, for the quiet whirring of a tape recorder, somewhere in the walls?

Either way, there wasn’t anything to hear.

Nina watched her breath fog on the glass, mesmerised by how it distorted and softened the cold yellow street light, fingers gripping the envelope in her hand _– too tightly, don’t, they’re listening, someone will hear, someone will know, someone…_

Her head felt so heavy, and so light, all at once. It wasn’t the pain of the bruise, she didn’t think. No, it was treason. That was what it was, what it felt like.

Betrayal – that country she had loved so much, that country that she _still_ loved, and always would, it had betrayed her as she had betrayed it.

Oleg was right – there’d been betrayal in his eyes, too, and she still wondered if it was the motherland that had let him down, or her, or both – he was right, she would die for this. She would die for _stealth_ and secrets and airplanes, for Stan, for caviar and stereos and the tiny picture of Lenin in the red, red enamel on the pin on her lapel...

Unless she ran.

Unless she gave up everything, gave up what she was, _who_ she was; gave up her people.

She could trust in Stan’s determination, Stan’s loyalty, Stan’s love for her – or trust in Oleg’s money, in Oleg’s doubts, trust in the sudden disappearance of the ever-present mirth in his eyes.

(In the end, she’d been raised in simplicity, but also in hardship, and she supposed a childhood like hers simply bred pessimists.)

.

.

_1982_

It was Oleg, Oleg of all people, who brought him the surveillance picture of the airport eight hours after Nina Sergeevna’s disappearance, and if he hadn’t looked so deceived, so downright _broken,_ perhaps Arkady would have asked how he had found her so quickly or how she’d had the money to run. But the boy – and he was just a boy, in truth, as he stood before his desk in a wrinkled shirt with reddened, tired eyes, holding out the document with a shaking hand – he looked so _angry,_ so let down, and Arkady decided to tell himself that Nina Sergeevna had perhaps still had the money from her little caviar trade.

She had, after all, turned out to be a traitor – again.

(It never occurred to him, though it probably should have had, that all that hurt and anger might have simply been directed at him, because Oleg was truly, in many ways, a boy still, expecting a father’s helping hand; and he had failed to extend it.)

.

Nina Sergeevna Krilova was a good agent, well trained, smart. Capable. It was what he’d liked so much about her. She left a trace, albeit a small one, and they followed it, to New York City, where the flight from DC took her, from there to Mexico City, to Caracas, the trace ever thinning, until it faded somewhere in South America.

She could have been anywhere, at this point.

A part of him was terrified – what would Moscow do now, with him, with his agents, his projects, his _family_ – but a part of him, a small and, perhaps, unpatriotic part, was strangely pleased.

_Well done, Nina Sergeevna. Very well done._

_._

_._

_1984_

Oleg didn’t like the new resident, another tired old man with tired old values and tired old methods who wasn’t up to date and who blocked every second request he put before him, and perhaps a year earlier he would have tried to go over his head, or sneak some things by under his radar – but a part of him was just tired, and so he didn’t.

And then his father called him home, and he went; and he cried for his big brother on the plane, where he still could without his father’s watchful eyes on him.

Moscow was drab, drab because he remembered how his brother taught him to drive in those streets, drab because his father’s face seemed to be chiselled from stone, drab because his mother spent her days in a darkened room; drab in comparison, perhaps. Then again, he’d thought the same about DC quite a few times over the past months.

Still, it was drab, drab and depressing, and after a few days, he couldn’t stand the big, empty house any longer and started returning to his old haunts, though he was not sure what he was hoping to find – drinks perhaps. He got those, too many of those; he was drinking too much lately, smoked too much. But at least he was eating, and leaving the house. He discovered women were still smiling at him in clubs, which was a comfort.

After a while, he began to smile back, and found it felt like a start. The start of forgetting, if nothing else. He’d been waiting to forget.

.

(Then he caught a pair of dark eyes across another drab, dimly lit room, and thought, _maybe not._ )

(Maybe forgetting had never been what he’d been waiting for.)

_._

_._

_1984_

Arkady had been forced back home, into a non-descript little job for the KGB in Moscow, but he didn’t lose _all_ his pull. He heard of Evgeniy Burov’s death, though months after the fact, and his good name was worth enough to get him a number to call.

He had meant just to convey his condolences and be done with it, but he realised, somewhat alarmed, that he’d _missed_ not just the work, not just the post, but the people. And Oleg, perhaps, most of all; it pained him to imagine this bright young man withering away under the new resident’s rule.

There was a tired exchange of pleasantries, though it irked both of them – but this was not a secure line, and if Arkady wanted to ask about America, or about all that had happened, he couldn’t. So it was all _very sorry for your loss; thank you, Arkady Ivanovich, it was very kind of you to call, I am sure you are happy to be back home; I hope your parents are able to face this with dignity._

Oleg told him _something_ surprising, at least, though it wasn’t KGB news. There was, apparently, a woman that he’d met in a bar in Moscow, a girl from some small city further east, a secretary in a big factory. Arkady still remembered the look in Oleg’s eyes when he came to his office to bargain for Nina, again and again; the look on his face when she’d disappeared, and found this blatantly conventional romance very hard to believe.

Her name, it turned out, was Nina too, and that brought a cynical smile to his face – thankfully, Oleg could not see it.

“I hope you are thinking this through,” was all he allowed himself to say, and Oleg sighed.

“I feel that I’ve contributed what I can. I’ll finish my tour, get back to Russia. I’m sure my mother will be pleased to see me settle, have me closer to home.”

It was Arkady’s turn to sigh. A part of him doubted all that would work out, but Oleg did sound tired, and perhaps it would, after all, be for the best.

“I’m sure she will be.”

.

.

_1987_

He had fled the stuffy air of the store with the vague idea of smoking a cigarette where his family wouldn’t see, but the wind that hit him as soon as he was out the door was so frosty he didn’t dare take his hands out of his pockets.

In the end, it was probably for the best. He wasn't very good at hiding things from his wife, and those cigarettes were more use for some little trade anyway.

The sidewalk was only slightly less crowded than the shop, but the cold air was bracing. The cold winters were something he’d missed in America – sure, he complained about the snow blocking the roads and soaking his shoes on the way to the metro like everyone else, he worried about the cold creeping into the nursery; but every now and then, he allowed himself to enjoy it.

“Oleg Igorevich?”

Oleg felt himself flinch and snap into a more upright stance before his mind had truly put a face to the familiar voice. The surprised smile came, thankfully, before the surge of panic, so he had hopefully not given any of the latter away.

He hadn’t spotted the couple standing before him, though they must have walked up the street just now, judging by the fresh snow on their shoulders and hats, and oh, he was getting lazy, he was getting too comfortable, _damn it, Burov –_

His old boss looked very much as he remembered, and yet – Oleg noticed the added lines around his mouth as well as the small stitches on the sleeve of his coat, where the expensive but worn material had torn at the seam. It was a neat stitch, a good, almost imperceptible mend, but still it showed the mileage; just as the washed-out black of his trousers and the peeling wool of his wife’s coat.

(There were seams in the thinning lining of his own coat – he might have bought a new one, he would have before, but he didn’t see the point now. The coat was still good, after all, and he’d come to appreciate the small traces of her hand in most of his clothing, even though her needlework was almost as bad as his.)

“Arkady Ivanovich,” he said, allowing himself to sound surprised. Because he was; Moscow was a huge city and the mere fact they both lived in it had never warranted the thought they might bump into each other anywhere outside of, say, political functions or work, and even then it was highly unlikely.

“Elena Mikhailovna,” he added towards the wife, taking a smidge too long to remember the name. He _was_ growing sloppy, too sloppy –

“Good afternoon. I trust you are well.”

“Of course,” the older man replied, with a weariness to his tone that somewhat undermined the statement. His wife threw Oleg a smile that was clearly supposed to reinforce her husband's words, but looked strained somehow.

“Shopping for New Year’s?” Oleg said with a faint smirk, and Arkady sighed, though there was a very slight smile in the corner of his eyes to mirror Oleg’s.

“Just a few greeting cards. How have you been, Oleg? How is your wife?”

“Oh, fine, fine.” Wives were not a good subject, and though he was pleased to see his old superior, he had to think of a way to get rid of him, and quickly, before –

The doors of the store opened again and spat another handful of customers out into the gusty wind, and Oleg froze at the sound of Sasha’s chirping little voice, calling out for him, _papa, papa.._.

“Sashenka, I said no running, come here.”

His mind raced, trying to find something, a distraction, a way out; but already Arkady’s eyes had narrowed, just slightly, like he’d recognised the voice but couldn’t quite place it yet…

“We’ll have to try somewhere else, they didn’t have the right size for your mother, could you –“ She broke off there, stopping in her tracks – they’d grown comfortable, _sloppy,_ trusting their luck would last, _stupid –_ then caught herself, plastered a smile onto her lips and gripped Sasha’s hand a little tighter.

She’d always, always been the better liar.

Her measured steps told him _pretend, act normal,_ and it was as good a strategy as any, at this point.

“This is Arkady Ivanovich, I worked for him in America, and Elena Mikhailovna,” he said stiffly into the sudden silence, trying and failing to ignore the look of shock on his old boss’s face. “This is my wife, Nina Andreevna.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Nina said, in a tone that probably didn’t sound strained to Arkady’s wife, or perhaps even Arkady. It wouldn’t save them, but he was faintly impressed nonetheless.

“Oleg speaks very highly of you.”

“That is kind of him,” Arkady’s wife said, smiling at Nina. “It is good to meet you, Nina Andreevna, we’ve heard so much about you.”

That was a blatant lie; Oleg had told Arkady about the wedding, and otherwise only smiled and nodded when he’d asked about his wife.

Oleg searched for Arkady’s gaze, but he was still staring at Nina – her hair was lighter, but it would take far more than that to fool him, of course.

“You have?”

“Oh, we were very pleased to hear about the wedding. You are from Samara, right? How are you adjusting to the city?”

“Ufa,” Nina corrected gently, still with that smile, tugging at Sasha’s hand. “But I’d lived here a few months when we met, so I just needed to adjust to a nicer apartment.”

Arkady’s wife laughed, and nobody else moved a muscle. Any moment now, the child would start crying, seeing his parents acting so strangely – he was already tugging at his mother’s coat, pulling at her hand, and Oleg thought he’d almost be glad for it.

“Ufa?” Arkady repeated, a little too softly, after what felt like forever.

“Yes. My parents were factory workers. I came here after my mother passed,” Nina replied, and he nodded, still watching her too closely, but the shock waning from his eyes.

“Mama,” Sasha whispered again, tugging more vigorously. “Mama, I want –“

“Your son?” Arkady asked, eyes finally flickering back to Oleg for a moment, and he nodded, out of the corner of his eyes watching his wife run a hand through the child’s soft hair and adjusting his hat.

“Yes. Sasha, he’s… he just turned three,” he replied, voice too brittle. _Please. Please, I know what I’m asking, but please, Arkady Ivanovich, please, for the boy…_

Again, Arkady nodded, slowly; then bent down slightly to throw Sasha a small smile. “Three already, huh? Congratulations.”

Sasha looked spooked, but muttered a _thank you_ after his mother quietly told him to, which brought a fond smile to Elena’s lips.

“A handsome boy.”

“Thank you,” Nina said quietly and threw her an apologetic smile. “We should get home, Oleg, he’s cold, and I haven’t prepared any lunch yet –“

“Yes. Yes, you’re right.” She _was,_ they needed to get back to the apartment, pack their things, if –

“It was good to see you, Arkady Ivanovich,” he added, suppressing the urge to retreat. _Act normal._ “You too, Elena Mikhailovna.”

“You should come for tea sometime, Oleg Igorevich,” Elena said pleasantly and he forced another smile.

“Absolutely, yes.” _Act normal._ “Goodbye.”

Nina threw the couple a faint smile, and they’d turned to leave – _walk slowly, act normal, act_ normal _–_ when Arkady called after him.

“Oleg.”

Oleg closed his eyes for a second, exhaling slowly. “Go on. Go on ahead.”

Nina shook her head. “No, I’ll –“

“ _Go_.”

He turned back to Zotov, who was catching up with him without hurry, but with a sudden calm and determination in his eyes that made Oleg jittery.

“Yes?”

Arkady’s eyes flickered left and right, too quickly, probably, for anyone else on the street to catch it, but it was something he’d spent too much of his life doing to not recognise it.

Oleg took a breath, inhaled too little air. “Arkady Ivanovich, I –“

“I never got to congratulate you,” the older man said in a slow, measured voice, cutting him off.

"Congratulate me?" he repeated, and for half a second, he thought there was something like a smile twitching around Arkady's lips.

“On your wedding.” He threw him a pointed look, and Oleg opted for a faint “thank you”.

Arkady nodded, his eyes fixed on his. “You have a very beautiful wife, Oleg,” he added, his voice probably calm and friendly to anyone around them, but he could hear the intent undertone – had heard it before, in fact.

_I am very fond of Nina Sergeevna. I know you are, too. I cannot tell her about the consequences. I have no cover, no one to shield me if things go bad. It’s out of my hands._

“I should be very careful, don’t you think, not to be seen too much with her.” Arkady paused, pale eyes bearing into his. “People would talk.”

“I… suppose they might,” he replied slowly, and Arkady nodded.

“I am leaving the KGB soon, Oleg. We might not see each other again,” Arkady said, then added with a terse smile, but not without warmth: “I wish you and your family a happy new year.”

Oleg exhaled, suddenly aware of the fact he'd been holding his breath, and tried to find some kind of sign on the older man's face that he'd misread the conversation, that he was hearing what he wanted to hear, but found no evidence to that. But it was hard to say - it wasn't like he'd seen his boss smile a lot in all those years.

“Thank you, Arkady Ivanovich. You as well,” he said quietly, and made a judgement call. For now, there was no threat to Arkady, and reporting it would just stir up the thing that had caused his fall from grace. The man was tired, too, and Oleg knew he had liked him, had liked Nina.

It would just have to be enough.

Arkady pulled his hat into his face against the wind, and as Oleg turned to walk away, he thought he heard him mutter:

“God, I should’ve known.”

 

 


End file.
